


Satellite Call

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [28]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Sings, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Queer Sam Week, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny Ray is a hunter looking for his role model: Dean Winchester. A journey across country brings him to a bookstore, and more than he could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts), [firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/gifts).



> okay, i'm late but this is my queer sam week day 6 entry (i did them backwards). day 6 was AU. i've mixed that in sort of, towards the end. 
> 
> the songs here that i used indirectly and directly are 1000 Times, Cassiopeia, and Satellite Call all by Sara B. and that ends our Queer Sam/Sara B week! :D
> 
> hope y'all enjoy this installment and my experimentation into QSW overall. XD it's been fun! 
> 
> let me know if the dialogue is hard to follow. you definitely need to follow closely for this fic.
> 
> <333

Danny Ray is a hunter. He searches out another hunter as big as myths.

His search takes him to dingy dives and hideaways and artillery bases. It takes him to trailers and cabins and secluded apartments above cheap diners. Sometimes he asks the right people and a nugget of truth is coaxed from the stories over whiskey and beer. Sometimes he asks the wrong people and his face gets fucked up, which he fixes with whiskey and beer. This is how Danny Ray was raised; it’s how he copes. His daddy was a hunter and he expected the best. Anything less got you killed.

But hunters are shitty at keeping up with those who turn civilian—retirees.

It’s by coincidence that Danny Ray finishes the last leg of his search. He’s in the right state; he just needs direction. Where would this hunter go? What sort of space would he occupy?

“Debra, your offer is ready at the buy counter. Debra, your offer is ready.”

The bookstore doesn’t just sell books. In the middle section of the store there are shelves and crates set up for records. Anything from Boy George to the Who is in those stacks, looked over by customers as varied as the selection. A young pup, can’t be more than twenty, picks up a Uriah Heep album. Next to him, an older guy examines a pressing of Pink Floyd.

Customers walk up to the counter where they can sell stuff and employees check them in. When the offer is ready, the intercom is used to page the customer back to the counter, where they are given a slip of paper if they accept their offer, and they can turn it in for cash at the register. It seems simple enough. Most people cart in boxes and bags of common bestsellers from three years back, hauling in their items like ants on a mission. One lady is confused why she isn’t offered more than five dollars for eighty Harlequin paperback books from the eighties.

He isn’t here to listen to these kinds of conversations; he’s here to track. This is the biggest store of its kind in the area. He picks up books in the alcove next to the buy counter, pretending to read as he waits.

Four attempts are made by the employees on duty to explain to the elderly woman why what she brought in isn’t gold. They will most likely throw the books in the recycling bin the moment her back is turned. She makes a fuss, a manager is called, and eventually, someone helps her box up the books and take them back to her car. As she leaves, she declares that this place is a rip-off and she can sell each of these precious gems at a garage sale for a dollar a piece.

After the lady leaves, the employees sigh in relief and joke with each other.

“I would have given her five dollars to leave,” one says with a laugh. “Holy shit.”

“Dude. I know. I just… ugh.”

“You can always tell how old romance paperbacks are by the hairstyles on the covers.”

“Well,” a young woman chimes in, “I don’t know about _you_ guys, but I could sell each of these rocks for a dollar a piece at a garage sale.” A round of laughs is interrupted by the phone ringing and someone at the register paging for backup.

Patience. It’ll happen.

Three more buys come in. The value of a Bob Dylan album is debated in one of them.

If this doesn’t pan out, Danny Ray has a few more leads, but they’re a little stale. This is a good town to get gas in anyway. It’s ten cents cheaper than what he’s been hitting on the way here. There’s also a Binny’s next door.

One of the young women at the counter asks another female coworker something worth listening to. “Lea, are you closing tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Are you gonna see him?”

“Uh… maybe…”

Another coworker, an older woman, walks by the buy counter with a stack of children’s books. “Kids is a mess,” she mutters. “Not that anyone cares.”

“Oh stop,” the first woman chides. “Lea gets to see _him_ tonight.”

“Yeah? And that makes you so special, doesn’t it?”

Lea stammers out a shy, “No! I mean… it’s not like… you know…”

“Honey, please. Ignore Julia. She hasn’t got the attention of a handsome customer like you do. Now, tell me, will you please let me do your makeup before he gets here?”

Before the conversation can go further, customers walk in with buys and someone asks for the video game case to be opened. The three women split up to do their work.

Danny Ray pours himself a cup of free coffee and waits.

 

Hunters grow up fast.

For his tenth birthday, Danny Ray was given a prime hunt: take down a dying werewolf. He tracked it, trapped it, and did as he father had trained him. Besides the carcass, his present was a pat on the shoulders from his father and a quiet, “Good job, son.”

Twenty-eight years old now, Danny Ray is an expert on werewolves and vampires. He’s hunted from east coast to west coast, north to south. In seconds he can switch his accent from New York yuppie to peach eating Georgian. Every kind of scam, play, and angle has been his study. He doesn’t kill as much or as fast as some of the old timers, but they listen to him when he radios something in, and that’s more than the majority of hunters his age can say.

For the bookstore, he’s decided to blend in by wearing jeans and a shirt. His clothes are not too new nor are they too tattered. They’re the right amount of broken in to pass for civilian clothes.

A customer erupts into a tantrum in the middle of the sales floor because an employee cannot find a book they are describing by the color of the cover. Danny Ray’s fingers twitch. All it would take is a quick punch to the throat and that customer would never make such a scene again. But he doesn’t have time to waste on someone who gets sweaty just by yelling at an hourly employee.

He walks back to the alcove near the buy counter—Collectibles. Some of these books look like the ones his father passed down to him. Just the usual spell books and reference guides, but worth their weight.

“Did you finish up that LP buy?”

“Yeah, Lea, why?”

“Anything good?”

“Uhh… got some Sinatra…”

“I said anything _good_.”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Let’s see… The Doors. Yes. The Black Keys. Oh, a Lana Del Rey album.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Quinn.”

“You can’t hurt me. You can barely lift the recycling bin. Anyway, that’s it for now. You’re welcome.”

“I could lift it. I just prefer others to do it for me.”

“Sure, sure. Hey, is your guy coming in tonight?”

“He isn’t _my_ guy!”

“You put on makeup for him—that makes him your guy to me.”

Hiding behind a pile of books, Lea blushes scarlet. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, tell him I put a bunch of Creedence in clearance because I had too much. It’s in the bright blue crates. Okay, I’m leaving. Some of us have lives outside this place.”

Shifts switch. Lea gathers up a cart of DVDs and rolls it out to the sales floor, ready to shelve. She has fast hands and a look of concentration on that deters customers from asking her questions. Danny Ray moves to the mystery paperbacks near the DVDs and still in view of the front door. He hears the rest of the hum in the store but places it in a separate category in his head.

Focus. The coworker from before comes up to Lea and checks on her lipstick. A touch up is suggested and done quickly, in between shelving copies of The Coneheads and Uncle Buck.

The store quiets for a few minutes as people leave to start dinner. Faint classical music filters through speakers in the ceiling. Danny Ray picks up an Agatha Christie book and flips to the fifth page. This is a trick he learned early; first page tells people you just started reading, or you’re standing there and are a greenhorn; second page is just as bad. It’s all in the details. It takes a lot of work to be unnoticed.

He could pickpocket every person in this store and they wouldn’t realize it until he was thirty miles out.

“Hey, look who it is,” one of the older male employees announces. “They let anyone in here these days.”

Danny Ray met him once. “Shaddap Tony, your ugly mug is here.”

“Been here for five years now. What’s up? We’ve barely seen you.”

“Ah, you know. Same old stuff.”

“I hear you, man. Well, at least you haven’t completely forgotten about us.”

“Nah. I’m looking for a book though.”

Out of the mystery aisle, Danny Ray works his way up towards the Collectibles section again, where he can be closer. He gets two quick glimpses to verify the voice. His eyes sweep quickly. Yes. That’s him. Not every old hunter is entirely out of their minds.

This conversation is taking place at the buy counter. A phone rings but someone else answers it. Tony goes to a computer to check their inventory. Standard stuff.  “I have to share this with everyone else. _You_ are looking for a book.”

“You better not. Can’t have people thinking that I read.”

“Yeah, best to keep them thinking that you’re an illiterate bum.”

“Dude, if you weren’t working…”

“Oh yeah, trust me, I’d be dead. That’s what my wife says, too.”

“Well I’m not your wife.”

“Thank god.”

Laughter is shared between them, easy and natural. This has to be a place he visits with some regularity.

“Okay, so, whatcha looking for?”

Danny Ray listens carefully. He can hear a piece of paper being taken out from a left back pocket. Carefully, it’s unfolded, which means that this errand holds some importance. It must be important anyway, since this is being done first. “Uh, fuck… something… The Brief… Wondrous Life of… man, I can’t read the last part. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

A few clacks of the keyboard and Tony states that he knows the book in question. “There aren’t that many books with those two words in the title, so I’m gonna assume it’s _The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao_ by Diaz. We should have at least one copy out there. Want me to walk you over?”

“No, I know the alphabet.”

“Uh huh, well, if it gets difficult for you, just holler.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anything else I can help you with, _sir_?”

“You’re a smug sonofabitch.”

“Oh, yes, it _is_ a lovely day outside, _sir_.”

“Alright. Is it Fiction?”

“Yep.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Not a problem. Stop up front, by the way.”

“Always do.”

It’s the tapping that throws Danny Ray off. It sounds loud, like he’s actually using the cane to walk. That’s just not possible. It has to be a prop. A way to blend in, just like what Danny Ray is doing now. Why doesn’t he get one of the higher ups to do him a favor and heal the knee back up? It has to be a prop; a very well used prop. After all, no one can play to people’s sympathies more than Dean Winchester. He knows people’s soft spots and all the places in their mind he needs to press to get what he wants from them. Danny Ray thinks this is clever. The cane keeps him simultaneously visible and invisible.

Once the book is found and tucked under his arm, Dean makes his way over to the front. Danny Ray waits a minute to follow. He hears the thunk of the cane when it’s tapped against a cart and the laughter from Lea right after. When they’re conversing, Danny Ray uses the distraction of the conversation to get closer. He stays within fifteen feet of them—two small shelves of DVDs away.

“Quinn says he clearanced some Creedence, in case you wanna look.”

“Oh, he did? Well… I’m sort of trying not to buy any more records.”

“Did you develop some kind of allergy to them?”

“No,” Dean clarifies with a short laugh. “They just… you know, take up too much space.”

“Maybe if you stored them properly you would have enough space for everything.”

“Hey, if I need home decorating tips, you’ll be the first person I ask, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just okay.”

“Don’t do that. It’s not nothing. What.”

“No. Never mind. It’s dumb and stupid and done.”

“Sweetheart, don’t call me dumb and stupid to my face. Save it for later. When I deserve it.”

Back up is paged to the buy counter. Three customers have come in with six or seven boxes each. The coworker with the makeup from before waves at Lea and Dean, then snaps at her coworkers to get started. Lea turns back to Dean, thrumming her fingers on the scanner she’s been working with.

She takes a deep breath.

“If you’re asking me things,” she says slowly and quietly, “you should ask me out to lunch.”

Civvies are predictable. She doesn’t know who she’s talking to. This is Dean Winchester. He’s a legend, a hero, and a damn fine hunter. If he wanted to sleep with Lea he would have done so already, because Dean doesn’t hesitate to take what he wants, when he wants it. This is a man who doesn’t need to speak to get the attention of women.

“Shit.”

“Oh god,” Lea blurts out, dropping her scanner onto the gray cart nearby. “I’m so sorry. I…”

“No, it’s okay, don’t…”

“It’s not okay, I can’t believe I just… I just… did that…”

What’s going on here? She wants him. She’s tiny and barely reaches his shoulders, but she’s blond and just as good as any woman on the road. Might as well. But okay, even if he doesn’t want to sleep with her, why doesn’t he just say no? He doesn’t owe her shit.

“That was pretty ballsy.”

“Yeah,” she cringes and hides her face with her hands. “And stupid and dumb, like I told you. Can you forget about what I said? Please?”

“Forget about it? Fuck no. I just got asked out by an attractive woman. Don’t take that away from an old guy like me. Seriously, do you know how old I am? I might as well be dust. I’m ancient. And you’re, what? Twenty-something? I’m not rich, either, so I couldn’t even be a proper sugar daddy or shit like that.” There’s a pause. Classical music is still dimly playing over the speakers. “If you don’t mind, I’m not gonna forget about this, cause it’s been a while since anyone’s asked and fuck, it feels good. Like I’m twenty again and on the prowl.”

“Don’t,” she replies with a watery laugh, “don’t say ‘on the prowl’ ever again.”

“Okay, but it’s true. I was a piece of shit when I was your age. I’m less of a piece of shit now, I think.”

“You’re not a piece of… you know.”

“Don’t give people so much credit,” Dean says with a firmer tone. He softens it, though, two seconds later. “Sweetheart, I’m not gonna lie and say you aren’t half the reason I come into this place. You got the best jokes and you always know to set aside Eastwood movies for me. But I’m married. I’m not that big of a piece of shit to not let you know that.” He takes the deep breath this time. “Damn. I was honest for once. Feels strange.”

Married? When did this happen? None of the old coots said anything about Dean Winchester getting married. He settled down? But why? If Dean Winchester willingly chose to confine himself to sleeping with one person for the rest of his life, then she’s either a witch or a runway model. Either way, she’s probably a civilian.

No one says anything for about thirty seconds. The sound of someone complaining about the price of a CD is louder than what Lea says next.

“Fuck,” she breathes out. “I didn’t… even see your ring. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dean replies just as quietly. “I’m glad you asked. This honesty shit isn’t so bad.”

“I’m not gonna clearance anything for you for a while.”

“Totally okay with me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, again.”

“You could clearance this book for me, if you’re really that sorry.”

“I’ll get Tony to beat you up.”

“That man can barely pull his pants up after a shit. I’m not afraid of him.”

“I’ll beat you up.”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh. I’m gonna get going. Tell Quinn I appreciate the records; maybe I’ll sneak some home another time.”

“Thanks Dean.”

“You’re giving me too much credit again, sweetheart. It’s all you.”

What the fuck kind of Cosmo-strawberry-daiquiri kind of shit was that? Is there a Trickster around? Did a witch grab hold of Danny Ray on his last hunt and fuck with his head so that all he sees are rom-com scenes played out? Is there something else going on here that he is completely fucking missing? Because all it has been is not what he’s expected at all. Not one glance is given to the records. Dean just goes to the register, jokes with the cashier about something stupid, pays with a fucking debit card, takes his receipt, and leaves—like any other boob.

This is too much.

Something else has to be going on.

Before Dean can get halfway through the parking lot, towards the car that Danny Ray has been trained to spot, Danny Ray walks after him. He stays a good distance back, to the side, trying to think of something that the hunters along the way failed to tell him. Did Dean go into a coma and forget who he is? Did he marry one of the nurses who took care of him in the hospital? Does he live in the suburbs? Does he have kids? Oh fuck.

In the middle of the lot, far enough to be out of earshot from anyone else, Dean stops and turns to Danny Ray. The look in his eyes has changed completely and drastically. There’s not a hint of friendliness to those eyes. There’s something colder there that no other hunter has—something not entirely human.

“Alright, you’ve gone far enough,” Dean growls out, holding up his cane, making direct eye contact with Danny Ray. “What the fuck do you want?”

A direct approach is better. Pretending not to know anything will get Danny Ray nowhere.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Danny Ray states, firmly holding his hands up.

“Obviously,” Dean sneers. “Talk smarter, kid.”

The exchange is a relief. Dean hasn’t become a civvie zombie. Danny Ray fell for the play. Well done. “I’m Danny Ray. Jonah’s boy.” He pauses to give Dean a second to remember the name. “Just finished a hunt in Iowa and… well no, actually, I’ve been lookin’ for you longer than that. But you’re tough to find.”

With the cane lowered a fraction, Dean grumbles, “What do you want, kid? I knew your dad. So what.”

“I just wanted to meet you.” Best to be honest. Winchesters appreciate honesty and loyalty. They show their appreciation in strange ways, and the people who help them often get killed, but it’s more than some hunters can say. If there were trading cards of hunters, Danny Ray would have a vintage Dean Winchester card. He’d get it signed, too. In reality, he’ll settle for a beer and some stories. “Congratulations, by the way,” Danny Ray adds to be polite. “Hadn’t heard.”

Dean places his right hand over his left, as if to cover up the ring. He shakes his head. “I got places to be, kid. You want my autograph or something? Something to take back to everyone so they can laugh?”

“No one’s laughing.”

“Yeah, sure they’re not.”

“You saved the world. You didn’t end it.”

The cane is lowered. “Don’t kiss ass,” Dean snarls, shoulders bristling. “I still got eyes and ears out there. I know what they’re saying. I don’t give two shits most days. What do you want? I have to be across town in twenty minutes.” The tone he took with Lea is miles away. Years of whisky and beer are apparent once more, they aren’t smoothed out or hidden anymore.

“Can I buy you a beer?”

“I don’t swing that way, kid.”

“I know you’re married…”

“Not _that_ way,” Dean sighs impatiently. “I don’t drink.”

It’s like following a kite in the wind. One minute, Danny Ray thinks he’s got a handle on his hero and the next minute he’s completely lost again. “Uh, fine. Burgers?”

Hard eyes take a glance at his wristwatch. “Fine. Seven o’clock. Phil’s Last Stand. You’re buying.”

He’s going to have dinner with Dean Winchester. They’re going to bond over burgers and Danny Ray is going to get to hear stories from the source. He’ll buy Dean the biggest burger.

The rumble of the Impala driving away fuels the sense of victory in his chest.

 

“What do you want?”

“A song.”

“I’m all out.”

“Fine. Ten million dollars.”

“Lawyers,” Dean snorts into Sam’s hair. “Greedy fuckers.”

“Hey, I asked for a song first.”

“Yeah. Guess you did.”

“You should come home like that more often.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“Mm.”

“Uh huh.”

“…”

“Dean.”

“…”

“Dean.”

“Baby.”

“Jerk,” Sam laughs into Dean’s ear. “You get everyone with that.”

“Just you,” Dean yawns. He hates Sam’s bed. It’s too firm. Makes his knee hurt.

“Uh huh.”

“For real.”

“I know.”

 

Hunters aren’t stupid. But they can be incredibly dense.

It took half an hour for that kid to figure shit out and connect the fucking dots. Dean didn’t mention his wife. He didn’t talk about her job or how they met or what she knows about his life. He didn’t say two words about where they actually live and he didn’t bother telling the kid that they’re not so hard to find; hunters just look in the wrong places.

The kid was looking for an idol.

Dean came home and cornered Sam in the kitchen.  After a quick game of chase and a smart move with his cane, Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and shoved him onto the countertop. He spread Sam open like dinner. Sam hit his head on the cupboard, his legs slung over Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging into Dean’s hair. For an hour, switching between his mouth and his fingers, until they stumbled over to Sam’s bed, Dean ate and ate and ate. Seconds were served in bed, with Sam riding him, leaning over, pressing their foreheads together and breathing back every thrust Dean gave with his hips into his mouth.

It wasn’t planned.

None of this was.

In another life…

All they have is this one.

But maybe Sam would have worked in a bookstore, making fun of customers and getting hit on by bored suburban mothers. He’d have worked there when he was sixteen, up until he left for college, and Dean might have been a regular. Before Sam’s last day there, maybe he would have gotten the courage to ask him out for lunch. Because that’s a ballsy move. Putting yourself out there. Risking everything even though it seems like nothing.

Maybe Sam would have said yes. And they would have had their first date like normal people—dinner and a zombie movie. He would have laughed too hard at all of Sam’s jokes and spilled something on him as an excuse to touch him and at the end of the night, Sam would have looked at him for a moment and made his decision: date this loser or ditch him?

Maybe he would have decided to take pity on the freckles. Freckles win everyone over.

Maybe they could have lived like that, with no notion of fire, ceilings, or ominous meanings to the color yellow. Maybe, on some distant star, they’re taking their first breaths as those people. Maybe their story starts and ends a thousand times.

It sounds pretty. But he’s learned his lesson.

He would come back to this a thousand times.

 

At a conference that Sam dragged him to last summer, there was a speech about living authentically past the age of fifty. At their age, the speaker insisted, they owe jack shit to no one. It might have been more eloquently said, but Dean got the gist of it.

He’s tired of caring. He’s tired of dragging around the questions, “What will people say? What will they think?”

When he signed his portion of the deed for this house, as soon as his pen hit the paper, he thought, “What would dad think?”

John needs to rest. He earned rest.

And now, Dean needs to rest. He’s earned it.

 

His voice is deep because he’s about to fall asleep.

“This was written for the one to blame,” he breathes, every muscle relaxing. “One who believes they are the cause of chaos and everything.”

Sam needs to rest. He’s earned it.

“You may find yourself in the dead of night, lost somewhere up in the great big beautiful sky.”

The nightstand lamp turns off without anyone moving.

“This is so you’ll know the sound of someone who loves you from the ground.”

 

He told the kid to keep moving.

Don’t come back.

 

This is his.

He means to keep it that way.

 

Sam props his leg under Dean’s knee.

 

“Tonight you’re not alone at all.”

Dean kisses Sam.

“This is me sending out my satellite call.”

Sam kisses back.

“This is so you’ll know the sound… of someone who loves you from the ground.”

 

This is just like heaven.

They grew up to be stardust.

They’ve earned this.


End file.
